Little Duck
by GlimmerGirl12
Summary: Prim and Gale are going into the Arena. Prim can trust Gale, right? He's practically her older brother. Only it turns out Gale wants to win. He's in the Career pack, with one clear aim: Kill everyone in his path and take the crown for himself. Except he's in for a shock: Meet Prim and Rue, the deadliest pair of tributes ever seen.
1. Chapter 1

Little Duck

Chapter One: Snatched from the Nest

" **J** ust count to three, Prim. Count to three and kill it." We are in the woods. It rained last night so the trees are green and smoky. Mist the color of milk floats around us, circling our waists like ghostly skirts. "No! I'm not killing it. I don't want to. Please Katniss, it's only a baby." I listen to the soft whimpers of the rabbit, which is light grey, like a puff of cloud, and has long soft ears that are pink on the insides. Its tail is as delicate as a cotton ball and its nose reminds me of a wet blackberry.

It is trapped in one of Gale's snares. Frozen mid-hop.

"Do you want to go to bed on an empty stomach? Huh, do you? Because that's where you're headed." I raise my head from my scuffed white shoes to see my sister's face. She has bluish smudges under her eyes. A vein pulses angrily on her forehead, purple beneath her beautiful olive skin. She slowly lowers her boot on the tiny foot of the animal. It squeals in protest.

"Don't hurt it! Please, _please_ don't hurt it. It's so small, look, it'll barely feed us anyway." I feel my eyes well up with tears. My face is flushed pink and my fingers tremble where they are wrapped around the knife's hilt. Katniss growls in exasperation.

"Just shut up and kill it, Prim. You need to learn how to hunt. Stop being such a baby."

Her words sting. I am twelve years old, but I feel like running home and burying my head in Buttercup's yellow fur and bawling. There was a time when my sister would never have spoken to me that way. A time when she called me 'little duck' and braided my long blond hair before bed, combing it until it was as smooth and silky as cream. Sometimes she would tell me about our father, what he was like. How he cleaned the coal from his shaving mirror every night. How his voice was so sweet, all the Mockingjays would mimic him.

Lately, though, she's changed. Distant. Cold. Sharp around the edges. Trying to teach me things; how to trade at the Hob, how to scavenge, how to fish. How to hunt. Each lesson is hasty, done as quickly as possible at dark times of the day. I picked strawberries at dawn before getting ready for school. Sold them to Madge after midnight. It turns out I have a knack for gathering; I can distinguish the edible from the poisonous. I can make goat cheese and help my mother make her medicinal poultices. I can slip under the rusty fence in the Meadow and flee to the dark embrace of the woods. But hunting gives me a stomachache.

"Prim, _kill_ it! Look, it's suffering." She stomps on its back foot again. It gasps in pain, its round furry body wriggling in the snare, trying to escape. It probably got separated from its mother. I imagine her hopping anxiously around her den, fretting over her lost young. Fluffing up his tiny bunny bed with soft grass. Making him a little carrot cake as a coming-home dessert. "Please, can't we just take him home?" I'm begging now. "Maybe if we hurry, mother can fix his leg and we can feed him some-"

" _Give me the knife."_ Before I can draw breath, she has snatched it from me. I watch, frozen, as my big sister drives the blade into its heart, feeling like she has pierced mine instead. Warm, dark blood stains its lovely grey coat. It wheezes feebly and a soft _puff_ leaves its mouth. Then it goes completely still. My sibling turns and begins to retrace our steps, guiding us back home. Sniffling, I crouch down and lift the corpse into my arms. I cradle the cold body close to my chest as I trail behind Katniss. It will be pitch black by the time we reach the fence. I think of the bunny's mother and the little carrot cake and begin to cry harder. To make up for it, I imagine a little rabbit funeral, with flowers and all of his tiny grey siblings snuffling his miniature coffin. It is a lovely service. It's interrupted, however, by my older sister."Quit blubbering, Prim. You're a big girl now. If you want to survive in this world, you're going to have to do stuff you don't want to. It's the only way." I know she's right, but it's easier to hug the bunny closer than to admit it."I'm not eating dinner tonight," I declare, my voice watery. It feels like a little rebellion. Like I've had a little victory. "It didn't deserve to die. It was only a baby." I hear my sister's frustrated sigh. She plays with her braid, which is the color of dark chocolate and straightens my father's hunting jacket, smoothing her hands over the supple leather. We used to fight over who got to wear it. As the head of the family, she argued, she was entitled. Besides, what would I want with it anyway? It is much too big for me. "Meat is meat, Prim." She quickens her pace and I struggle to keep up, knowing the conversation is over."Still," I whisper under my breath, glancing up at the huge yellow moon, which is swollen with summer heat. "It was only a baby."

 **T** oday is Reaping Day. I wake up to the sound of water. Opening my eyes, I see my mother pouring it into the basin we bathe in. Steam, milky as the mist, rises into the warm air. She has tidied the kitchen; the countertops are pristine and you could lick the floor. There are little pink flowers in a vase on the table, picked this morning from the meadow. Our lunch, which consists of tough brown bread, is in a small basket and covered with a cloth to keep fresh. Mother sees that I am awake. "Come on, hop in," she beckons me. "It's almost twelve." I sink under the hot, silky surface and let her help me clean the grime off my skin. Bits of coal shed into the bathwater, which turns grey from the dirt. The yellow cake of soap burns as it harshly scrubs the layers of grease away. She washes my hair and I feel her long fingers tremble as they lather it with suds. When I get out, she hands me a towel and leads me to her bedroom. On the comforter is Katniss's first Reaping Day outfit. A blouse, which has been pinned to fit me, and a loose skirt that sways when I walk. I wriggle into them. The shirt is still too big and it sticks out in the back. "Go on and get your chores done. It's late." Mother's voice is strained and I know she's on the verge of tears. If Katniss is picked… Well, I can't even think about it. Instead, I go outside and feed Lady, my sweet tempered goat. I stroke her snowy head, whispering, "I won't let her hurt you, Lady. Don't worry."

When I go back inside, Katniss is there. She smiles gently at me. "Tuck your tail in, little duck." She smooths her rough hands over the soft material of the blouse. It feels like an apology. "Quack," I joke, waving my arms like wings. I pretend to peck her shoulder, feeling a surge of pride at the grin that splits her features. She bathes herself quickly and shimmies into the lovely blue dress my mother is letting her borrow, along with the matching shoes. It hugs her body in all the right places and the color makes her grey eyes look soft and warm. Mother arranges her dark hair into an intricate braided crown. Now we stand, side by side, in the mirror. Katniss leans our heads together, our hair like chocolate and gold. I check to see if our noses are still the same shape. They are. Looking at her image, I feel a pang of envy. "I wish I looked like you," I confide. She smiles again, and it is genuine and compassionate. Her white, slightly crooked teeth gleam in the light. "I wish I looked like _you_ , little duck."

 **W** e walk hand and hand to the town square. It is nearly two. The sun makes my neck drip with sweat. Katniss leads me to the registration table. They prick my finger and I try hard not to be a baby about it, squeezing my eyes shut as a drop of ruby blood oozes onto the white paper forms. "See you after," she whispers in what is meant to be a reassuring tone. She goes to stand in the front, with the other sixteen year olds. I am pushed to the back, walled in by the other girls and boys in my age category. Some I recognize from school, and we smile and wave timidly at each other, but soon we face forward, absently wiping sweat and secret tears away.

Everyone is in their finery for the occasion. Drab-colored dresses, pressed black jackets and watery lipstick smear the crowd. I tuck my 'tail' in self consciously. On the stage ahead of me is the mayor and Effie Trinket, who looks like a cheerful clown with her bright pink wig and glossy makeup. They seem to be waiting for someone. Haymitch obviously. After a short wait, the mayor stands up and walks to the podium. He begins his long ramble about the history of Panem, the Dark Days when the districts rebelled against the capitol and the reason behind the annual Hunger Games. Haymitch stumbles onto the stage halfway through, obviously intoxicated out of his mind. He tries to give Effie a hug then nearly falls on his face as she manhandles him into the chair. After the brief propaganda clip, Effie glides to the front, her wig slightly askew. It is held in place by cans and cans of hairspray. If I lit a match and held it up to her or Haymitch, they would probably burst into pink fire.

I feel nervous, but guiltily so. My name is only in the big bowl one time. Compared to many, the odds are vastly in my favor. To calm myself down, I think of the supper we will have tonight, after the Reaping is over. White, flower-shaped rolls from the bakery. Fish, whose slick skins will have simmered on the stovetop. Strawberries bursting with juice.

"As tradition states, Ladies first," Effie announces gleefully, wobbling in her immense heels. She approaches the two glass bowls, which have been polished so they refract the light. I stare at my sister's blue-clothed back as Effie's velvety gloves enter the container. There are thousands of tiny slips inside. One unlucky girl will be chosen to die in the arena in less than a minute. Her fingers dance around, building the tension as the audience leans in. She finally snatches up a slip and lifts it to her pale face. Shielding her eyes, she reads in a clear, loud voice. "Primrose Everdeen."

 **I** never realized how many people lived in District 12. Gazing out at the massive sea of dark heads and grey eyes, I feel numb surprise. Effie's delicate hands circle my thin shoulders and her breath is hot on my neck as she leads me to the center of the stage. The two women who have cared for me, bathed me when I was sick, fed me dark bread and sung me to sleep have turned to stone. They are statues, frozen for eternity in the dripping August heat. "Primrose, that's a lovely name. How old are you, dear?" Effie's posh accent thaws my silence. The stares of thousands bore into me like hot stars. "Twelve," I whisper. Just twelve. I look over at Haymitch, but he is staring at his shoes. Shaking his head. He reminds me of a golden retriever with his greasy yellow mane. Effie's smile widens exponentially. "Only twelve years old? Why, if you won this year's Games, young lady, you'd make Panem history!" She is obviously searching for some enthusiasm, some buried zeal, in the depths of the crowd. Finding none, she shrugs a little. "Well, let's not delay this any further. Onto the boys." I knew a girl named Effie, once. She was a quiet girl, with long mousy hair and a lisp. She was in my class. She brought me a little yellow cake when my father died and let me borrow her pencil during a test. Nice. Effie's glove descends slowly into the other container and plunges deep into the white foam of paper. She gingerly extracts a name and lifts it close to her eyes. I wonder if she is nearsighted. I've heard that most people are. "Gale Hawthorne?" This time it sounds like a question, as if she is unsure if such a person exists. He does though. Gale exists more than most people. More quietly, though. Effie's smile is diluted now, but I think it is because she has realized the state of her wig. It is a small wonder that it hasn't fallen off the stage, into the crowd. A pink puff. Gale, broad-shouldered and tan, opts to leap onto the stage rather than use the wooden staircase. All of Panem will see how toned his calves are, how easily he makes the bound. He is pulsing with a dormant power. "Shake hands, you two," Effie orders, giving the cameras a dazzling beam. Katniss and my mother are iced over once again. Rory, Posy, Vick and Hazelle, however, are bent over their knees, weeping and hanging onto their neighbors in an effort to stay afloat. His mother throws up. I can smell the pungent odor from my place on the stage. Gale leans over and grips my hand in his huge one. His skin is calloused and rough and warm. He gives my hand a friendly squeeze. I should feel relieved. This is Gale. He is practically my own blood. My big, strong brother. "Oh, Little Duck," he whispers, so only I can hear him. His eyes are tender and warm, like baked goods. They remind me of dark mountains that are swathed in morning fog. "We make one pitiful pair, don't we?" He gives me another squeeze and lets go. I see that the crowd has forgone the usual applause. Instead, they have raised three fingers to their mouths and stretched them towards us, into the blue, blue sky. It is a bittersweet gesture. A goodbye kiss. Gale and I, we are going to the Capitol. We are never coming home.


	2. Chapter 2

Little Duck

Chapter Two: All Aboard

 _Prim's POV_

 **I** have never felt velvet before. My mother has a green velvet dress, with long sleeves and a lace collar, but I'm not allowed to touch it. It resides on the top shelf of the bedroom closet, wrapped carefully in white paper. The room in the Justice Building, however, is full of the stuff; the sofas, the chairs, even the curtains, are all made of the lovely soft material. The walls are robin egg's blue and the carpet is decorated with purple flowers. I wonder if Madge, the mayor's daughter, has a bedroom as nice as this. Probably not. I am curled up like a kitten in Katniss's lap, letting her stroke my long blonde hair. Every once in awhile she leans in to press her forehead against mine. Her grey eyes are closed in grief. Mother gently glides her hands up and down my sides in long, graceful sweeps. Her face seems to have aged several decades; wrinkles crease her formally smooth skin and there are brown spots speckling her nose and cheeks. "Prim," Katniss breathes wetly. Tears flow in storms from her dark eyelashes. "Prim, you have to listen to me. You have to come home to me." I nod while she rocks me in her arms. I still feel numb. My thoughts are hazy and distant. I am floating on a pink cloud. Suddenly, Katniss pushes me away from her, so violently that I nearly tumble onto the floor. "Do you understand me?" She shakes my shoulders. "You have to win the Games. I can't live without you. I mean it. If you die, I die." I gaze listlessly into her face. She is being silly. We both know that I will be coming home. In a coffin. "Prim, you're going to have to kill people. Twenty three of them. I'm not joking around. You do what needs to be done." I nod again and lean into her, inhaling her scent for the last time. She smells like woodsmoke and grass and fresh air. "I love you, Katniss," I whisper into her neck. "So, so much. When I come home, bury me in the meadow." So, so much.

 _Katniss's POV_

 **I** embrace Gale one last time. His grip is as tight as a noose; my ribs almost crack from the sheer force of his bear hug. His head rests heavily on my shoulder. The weight feels good. Grounding. I run my fingers through his dark mane, which is as thick as wolf fur. Hazelle and his three younger siblings are huddled together on the fancy couch. They look like mice, with their heads tucked into their grey clothing. I tell Gale that he has a chance, mostly for his mother's benefit. Hazelle nods to herself as I rattle off a list of his skills; hunting, fishing, starting a fire. He is young and strong and handsome. He will make it far in the Games. "The Capitol women will be drooling all over you," I joke softy. "They'll sell their diamonds to send you parachutes." Gale grins and crushes me to his chest. "Take care of my family, Catnip. I'll be missing you." I promise him that I'll bring them game and strawberries and edible herbs. I will bring them cheese from Prim's goat and medicine from my mother's kitchen. They will be alright. "Just promise me you'll look after Prim, for as long as you can," I beg. He releases me then, and I see that his eyes are dark. They are always dark when he has something serious to say. "For as long as I can. But I need you to know, Katniss. I'm in this to win. My family needs me."

For a moment, the world blurs, the colors confusing themselves, the sharp angles of the room softening and liquidating. My blood is frozen through and I feel breathless. Gale, who I thought would take a bullet for me, who convinced Prim to eat and bathe after my father's death, who scrambled under the fence and braved the woods with me, will let my sister go. I don't trust people very easily, but I did trust Gale. What a mistake that was. "What about us?" I whisper brokenly. "Aren't we your family?" I grip his arms so tightly my wrists throb. He looks over to his little mouse family, who is staring at him with wide, wet eyes. They look hungry and sick and washed out. Hazelle's hands, which are calloused and rough from years of laundry work, snatch the hands of her children. Her cool brown eyes are glazed over like sweetcakes. Finally, Gale looks at me. "It's just not the same," he whispers. Then he drops my hands. A guard enters and escorts him to the door. "I love you all," he murmurs in his deep, smoky voice. "So, so much."

 _Prim's POV_

 **A** ccording to Effie, we will arrive at the Capitol in one day. The train is sleek and modern, with silver walls and doors that hiss as they slide open. It is faster than a racehorse, faster than a deer when it smells a predator. Even faster than the little dead rabbit. "Dinner will be served in an hour. Why don't you two freshen up? Let me show you to your rooms." She drops Gale off first. He gives me a little smile and a wink when her back is turned, then disappears behind the door. "Ah, and here's your bedroom, dear!" Effie exclaims. "Go right on in and make yourself at home. Remember, go to the dining car in one hour. Just walk straight, you'll hit it eventually." She gives me a bubbly smile and pats my shoulder amicably. Then she straightens her wig and wobbles down the corridor in her bright pink heels. I wonder how she is able to remain upright in those things; I would surely hit the floor the moment they were strapped to my feet. The doorway parts and lets me enter, sealing itself shut with a gentle _whoosh._ My eyes widen comically as I absorb the room's insides. The walls are a deep purple and there is a thick, plush carpet beneath my feet. I slip off my mother's cloth shoes and step onto the surface, giggling at the feeling. It is as if I have stepped onto a floor made of chick fluff. The bed is enormous and could easily fit three of me in it. Back home, I have to share a mattress with Katniss and sometimes she kicks me in the middle of the night. She is also a horrid blanket thief. The duvet is a deep plum, and when I experimentally glide my fingers over the pillows, I find that they are silky soft. There is a vanity with a silver hairbrush and a little blue mirror with swirls on the sides. Another door leads to a spacious bathroom. I feel hot and sweaty, so I carefully strip off my clothes and fold them into neat squares, then hop into the shower. At the touch of a button, warm, perfumed water sprays out of the nozzle and wraps me in a sweet rain. I sniff my skin. I smell like vanilla and some sort of flower. I dry off and slip into a pale pink dress and matching shoes. I arrange my hair into a braided crown, which is slightly reminiscent of the one Katniss wore to the Reaping. I feel a pang of sorrow as I think of my sister. What would she think of me now, if she saw me swathed in pink and smelling like a blossom? In the old days she would have laughed and called me her pink sugar fairy. Now, I'm not so sure. I have to put aside my musings for the time being, though, since it is time for dinner. I wonder if they'll have white bread and those iced cookies Peeta's father sells in his bakery. I find myself looking forward to the meal; my first feast as a Tribute.

 **T** he dining car is long and narrow, with red striped wallpaper. The furniture is made of dark, heavy wood. "Mahogany," Effie clarifies when she sees me examining the table. "Finest wood in the world!" Haymitch is absent; perhaps he is still drunk or has fallen asleep. Naturally, I get the mentor who is an alcoholic. Gale sits across from me, freshly showered and dressed in a hunter green shirt which seems to make his eyes glow. Effie seems refreshed at the improvement in our appearance. "Don't you two clean up nicely. It's lovely to see tributes who know how to shower. I swear, the last pair didn't bathe until the stylists got a hold of them!"

After a ten minute wait, she instructs us to start eating, since Haymitch clearly isn't going to make an appearance anytime soon. Men in black clothing silently distribute the various courses. I am overwhelmed by the sheer luxury of what is placed before me. Thick brown soup with mounds of white rice. Lamb chops with a strange spice ladled on top. Beans soaked in milk. A sugary cake with a sheer glaze. Though the food smells wonderful, I find that I have no appetite. I pick half-heartedly at my plate, feeling my stomach recoil at the idea of gorging myself. Gale, however, heartily tucks into his supper, devouring the chicken and guzzling the beans. Effie looks a little disgusted at his pace, but simply presses her lips together.

After dessert has been cleared away, Haymitch leers into the car. His yellow hair is sweat-soaked and stuck to his face and his clothes are despairingly wrinkled. He stumbles to the table and collapses in a chair. "Where's the food?" He demands, kicking the table leg. "What do I have to do around here to get some damned dinner?" Effie silently motions one of the waiters over and asks him to bring something out. Her glossy smile has dissolved. The man disappears. After a few minutes, in which he seems lost in a haze, Haymitch takes notice of us for what feels like the first time. "Stand up," he barks, flailing his arms around like a swan. Gale and I rise from our seats and pose side by side. "Turn!" Haymitch orders. "Turn!" His eyes roam over our bodies, soaking us in. I cross my arms over my chest, feeling cold and translucent. It doesn't last long, though; Haymitch is turning to Effie, now, completely ignoring us. "The boy's okay," he comments as he ladles soup into his spoon. "Got a good, strong build. Be able to do something with that. The little girl's got no chance. Too skinny." I feel my cheeks warm as he turns back around to face us. "Can either of you do anything? Throw a knife or something?" He is only addressing Gale, who immediately straightens and nods. My adopted brother seizes a butter knife and hurls it at the wall, where it lodges itself in a panel. Haymitch nods his approval, taking a swig from a silver flask, while Effie applauds lightly. "Not bad, boy," he praises. "Any other skills I should know about?" Gale smiles toothily at him, which I find disconcerting, especially because I know what he really thinks about Haymitch. He always laughs the loudest when he sees District 12's only victor fall off of his chair in a drunken stupor. "I can hunt and fish, sir," he explains. "Start fires too. And I have a way with animal traps." _A way with animal traps._ I know this to be a great understatement; Gale was born with incredible insight into the minds of animals. He can rig a snare, weave a net, dangle bait. In the morning, there is always a victim trapped in the clutches of his invention.

Haymitch will choose Gale to send parachutes to. He is automatically the favorite. Why shouldn't he be? He is obviously the stronger candidate. By a longshot. Haymitch turns to me and asks if I can do anything else as well, but I know it's more of a formality at this point. Gale has already won. "I can fish, and set a few traps," I whisper, blushing furiously. Haymitch rubs a hand over his face. "Any weapons training?" He cracks his knuckle as I shake my head. It's true; I don't know how to swing a mace, throw a knife, or fire an arrow, though now I desperately wish that I had paid more attention to Katniss's shooting demonstrations. Too late now. "You're twelve, right?" He asks, cocking his head to the side. I nod silently once again. Haymitch shakes his head and sighs deeply. "Poor little thing. It's always the young ones who go first. But maybe that's merciful. You don't want to win, trust me. You'll end up just like me." He laughs then, and the sound is sharp and bitter. All of a sudden, his face distorts and he gets a queasy look. His face turns a light shade of green. And then he vomits all over my pink dress.

 **I** t is late at night. Back home, in the Seam, I would have been asleep hours ago, with Buttercup snuffling into my hair. Gale and I spent a few hazy hours watching recaps of the previous Games, to try to glean something from the footage. All I can remember is blood. I am staring at the ceiling, which is slightly rounded at the top. The bed is as soft as melted butter in a pan. The sheets are cool and cling to my legs pleasantly. The train rocks back and forth, back and forth. There is a light hum in the air, vibrating all around me; it is soothing and serene. Despite the comfort of my new quarters, however, I can't seem to fall asleep. Every time I close my eyes I see someone I used to know. My sister and my mother, obviously. But there are random selections flitting before my vision as well; the baker, Darius, Greasy Sae. Even Lady, my sweet goat. I wonder if Katniss will tell her where I went. I hope she'll remember to feed her and give her a good brushing every week, to keep her fur as perfect as new snow. Another hour passes and I still have not drifted off. The pillow smells like mint. Eventually, I give up and rise from the thick mattress, padding softly to the door. It opens with its token reassuring hiss. I drag myself down the corridor, towards Gale's room. The train is so fast I can't feel the motion of it underneath my feet. My pajamas are a peach-colored silk, cold and flowy against my pale skin. Without knocking, I enter his room, letting myself be meshed with the darkness. Gale is in his bed, flat on his back. He smiles when he sees me. There is a crinkle in the corner of his eyes, and I wonder if he has been expecting me. "Can't sleep, half-pint?" He whispers. I shake my head and he beckons me closer. "Come on and sleep with me then. We won't tell Effie. I'll keep the nightmares away." Gale is warm and firm and his chest throbs lightly beneath my head. We are tangled together under the goose-feather blanket, though in an entirely innocent position. Gale's eyes close and he exhales softly. I nestle into his loose embrace and let the train and his heartbeat lull me into a dead sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Queen of Nothing

 **T** he Capitol is glittering. Its beauty reminds me of a sunset, a million colors smudged together in a breathtaking blur. The buildings vary; some are snow white rectangles with towering columns, others are round and have a metallic sheen. The streets seem to be sprinkled with flecks of silver glitter and are interspersed with shallow pools. In the sky, the clouds are purple and the sun shines delicately. The lights dim as the train whooshes into a tunnel and begins to slow down. It comes to a perfect standstill, allowing me a clear view of the faces outside the windows. There must be a thousand people here, though they hardly resemble humans at all. Their fashion choices largely consist of too-bright colors and ostentatious hairstyles. A woman to my left has dyed her hair magenta and twisted it into oddly shaped braids. A man standing behind her has several painful-looking spikes protruding from his ears and eyebrows. By comparison, Effie's appearance seems modest. The spectators are cheering, waving, crying joyfully. I stare blankly ahead, not focusing on anyone in particular, soaking in their odd clothing and clownish makeup. Gale, however, has abandoned his breakfast to grin and wave at his adoring fans. His attention seems to invigorate the masses, and they swarm like the tunnel like locusts. "Don't you want to join Gale, dear? They're here for both of you, you know." Effie looks confused, like she can't fathom why I wouldn't want to expose myself to the manic stares of the crowd. I play with the hem of my dress and shake my head silently, shifting in my seat to observe Haymitch, who passed out somewhere between his coffee and his buttered scone. He, at leasts, seems peaceful. "Well, I'm sure you'll feel a lot less shy after your stylists are through with you. By the time they're done, everyone will want to look just like you. You'll be an absolute princess!" Effie's smile is so huge, it seems to melt the rest of her features away as if they were made of whipped cream. Whipped cream has become my favorite Capitol delicacy. It is as light and airy as a bite of cloud. "Do you mind if I go to the observation car?" I ask. To douse my words in sugar, I add, "The Capitol is just so amazing to see." Effie chuckles softly, nodding to herself. "I know, I know. It is a sight to behold, especially coming from that, well, frankly dreary district of yours." She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. "Go on, dear. Soak it all in."

 **I** am stark naked, being circled by three vultures. Well, the vultures are really my prep team, but the way they have been picking at me reminds me of the birds. Every few seconds, one will descend and pluck at my stinging skin. I feel like a carcass whose outer shell is being devoured, with only a fragile skeleton left behind. I have been bathed three times over, been scrubbed and polished and perfumed. Octavia, a plump lady who has light green skin, rubs lotion all over me. I sniff my shoulder, trying to identify the odor. "It's coconut, darling," Octavia informs me as she kneads the stuff into my hands. "Have you never heard of it before?" Venia, who has aqua colored hair and gold tattoos, lifts my chin and inspects my face with a critical eye. "It's a good thing you're so fair," she comments, turning my face in her hands as if it were a block of wood. "Everything's less visible."

 **C** inna, my stylist, emerges from a silver door after three hours of cleansing have passed. I like the way he looks; his hair is its natural brown hue and his dark skin is warm and clean of makeup, save a dash of gold eyeshadow. It brings out the light flecks in his chocolate colored eyes. My prep team has retired to the lounge and is giggling over the outfit a friend wore to Flavius' birthday party. I've never had a birthday party, but Katniss usually tries to trade for something sweet at the Hobb. Last year it was a shortbread cookie and the year before it was an orange. We celebrate quietly, as sisters, occasionally folding our mother into the mix. It is always a good day. When I turned twelve, a boy gave me a flower and a kiss on the cheek at school. I cup that memory in my hands and hold it close. Cinna smiles and extends a hand. When I grasp it, it feels warm and certain. "Hello, Primrose. My name is Cinna. I'm to be your stylist during your time here in the Capitol. But I'm here to help you in any way I can." His eyes crinkle at the corners, a gentle smile. He breaks the handshake and begins to slowly walk around me, examining my exposed body. When he comes full circle, he helps me into a thin paper robe and ushers me into a plush yellow chair. He seats himself across from me. "We need to talk about your image," he begins, leaning back. "As you know, it's traditional to dress the Tributes in costumes that represent their district's speciality. For District 12, coal mining." I nod, bracing myself for the inevitable humiliation of being dressed like a coal miner. My stomach churns as I recall the year when the Tributes were completely naked save a dusting of black powder. I hope, hope, hope Cinna has a sense of propriety. "Portia-that's Gale's stylist- and I have come up with something unique for the both of you. We both agree that the coal miner thing is very overdone. However, we're also breaking the tradition of having the Tribute pair be matching. You see," he leans in and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "You see, you and Gale are both very different. Therefore, you require different angles to get you sponsors. I've discussed my ideas with Haymitch, and he agrees that we should portray you as the innocent little girl you are. We want the whole word to underestimate you, to believe that you'd rather die than kill a butterfly." He clasps my face in his hands, slowly brushing his thumbs along my jaw. "Just think," he murmurs softly. "We're going to mask the warrior within."

 **M** y prep team, guided by the occasional comment from Cinna, transforms me from a plain girl from District 12 into a pink fairy who lives in a flower. Flavius cakes my face with pale foundation and fills in my lips with a stick the color of strawberry. My cheeks are dusted with blush and gold glitter. Venia draws lines on my eyebrows, and they look softer and darker when I catch a glimpse in the mirror. My hair is plaited into two long braids and tied up with pale pink ribbons and my eyelids are brushed over with a light hand. Cinna helps me slide into a dress that resembles a rose and does the laces up on a pair of soft cloth slippers. He gives me a few final touches, smoothing everything into place, combing a few errant wisps of blonde hair into formation, then gives my shoulders a comforting squeeze. "There. You are officially the most beautiful girl in all of Panem." He leads me to a floor length mirror so I can meet the goddess who stares back at me. She looks gentle, harmless, like she just emerged from a fresh petal. She has a quiet, understated strength about her that will escape the notice of all who see her. Maybe she has a chance of going home, where she will sleep in her cool flower and dream of a world far, far from this one.

 **G** ale is terrifying. For a moment, I do not recognize the dark warrior who stands before me. He is giving me his usual soft grin, but it seems to have a dangerous edge to it now. His handsome face has been coated in bronze powder and his cheekbones look like they could slice through paper. His eyes, which are normally a lovely, hazy grey have been transformed into raging black storms. He is swathed in icy black leather, which makes his shoulders look broad and his muscles enormous. "Hey duckling," he greets me, his voice a deadly purr. "Nice dress." I blink, and suddenly his frightening exterior dissolves. He is Gale again, my sweet older brother. Just covered in makeup. "How do I look?" I ask, giving him a dainty twirl. He laughs softly. "Too good for them" he decides. I smile gratefully and pad over to the big black horses, stroking their silky noses. "Hey there," I whisper. "What are your names?" I pretend we are having a conversation, transferring their snuffles and whinnys into words. Their names are Midnight and Shadow. They are excited for the Opening Ceremonies. They love sugar cubes. They think I will win. I feed them bits of carrots and apples and run my fingers through their perfect manes as the other Tributes arrive. Each pair wears identical costumes which embody their district's primary service. The teenagers from District One are painfully beautiful, dressed in white and silver. They are wrapped in fur cloaks and have intricate rings dripping from their fingers, looking as lovely as frost. The boy and girl from District 4, instead of being sewn up in a hideous fish costume, are draped in sea blue fabric that shimmers when they walk. Cinna and Portia come over and spray us with hairspray until I feel sticky and am coughing from the fumes. They help us mount, then lean in for a few parting words. "Tonight is about making an impression. Gale, you remember to stare straight ahead, look as fierce as possible. Primrose, you just smile and wave like you can't believe your luck at being a Tribute. Oh, and one more thing." Cinna presses something small and white into Gale's hand. "Push the button when you're ready." He winks and steps down to let Effie get a good look at us. Her eyes widen into hazel colored saucers. "Oh my, my, my, don't you two look like royalty. A king and queen. Yes. Prim, that dress is absolutely darling. And Gale, why, you look like… The word eludes me." "Like coal?" Gale asks. Effie smiles, relieved. "Oh yes, haha, that's it. You're the King of Coal!" She smiles and pats our cheeks. "Big smiles now. Here you are, in the heart of the Capitol." She closes her eyes and inhales once more. "Just breathe it all in."

 **T** he audience roars like a lion. The individual people become one living, glistening beast, surging towards the chariots as they roll in one by one. As our horses begin to trot along the pathway, the crowd refreshes itself, cheering more vigorously than before. Gale and I must be something of an anomaly, seeing as we look entirely different. There is him, who is tall and powerful and has black smudges under his eyes, and then there is me. I smile timidly, but I want to retreat back into my blossom home even more now. "Prim, over here!" A woman screeches. I look over and give her a wave. She nearly faints from delight. When we are halfway through our trip, the audience suddenly begins to scream. I look around frantically, wondering if something horrible has happened; is the chariot malfunctioning? Did someone collapse? When I whip my head behind me, however, I realize it was merely a response to the fire engulfing Gale. The black leather seethes in the scarlet flames and his face is fierce and smoky. "Gale, Gale, Gale!" His name is shrieked so loudly, I fear my eardrums might burst. My fellow Tribute seems oblivious to their chants and fixes his smouldering gaze straight ahead, where President Snow is perched on a balcony. People are so excited, there are tears streaking down their faces. So much emotion for such a triviality. Many people throw roses, but I notice they are only on his side of the chariot. They are only blaring his name. As the horses finally patter to a halt, I feel my stomach churn with the realization that Gale is a piece of burning coal; alive, ferocious, unending. He consumes the crowds, blazing a trail through their midst. He is the king, and I have fallen by the wayside. President Snow has to clear his throat twice before the people cease their howls. Gale's flames finally fizzle and extinguish themselves, without any blue smoke, like I expected. I wonder if the others thought it was real fire, too. "Welcome, welcome. Welcome ladies and gentlemen, to the 74th annual Hunger Games!" Snow's voice is defeated by the deafening yowl of the crowd. He holds up a velvet-covered hand and smiles. His lips look puffy and swollen. "Tributes, I welcome you to the Capitol. Tonight, we honor your courage and your sacrifice." More thunderous applause. He strokes his white beard then lifts the wineglass he has clutched in his right fist. "A toast, if I may. To this year's festivities, and to the brave young men and women who are standing before me tonight! Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: Make New Friends

 _ **O**_ _uch._ A drop of thick blood oozes from where I pricked my finger on a sharp thorn. There are a thousand roses here it seems, varying in size and hue. Some have delicate wisps of a stem and a burst of crimson blossom at the head. Others are more robust and have ruby petals that drip heavily from the flower's cone. Each is misted with a unique perfume, the scents wafting into the air and giving me a headache. I walk to one of the windows and look down the dizzying height to the streets below. Even from the penthouse they glimmer, white and radiant. I can make out a few blurs of green and blue which must be people, but I can't see their freakish outfits or puffy hair. A white remote sits on a table in front of me, with a tempting array of buttons. I press one, and the windows black themselves out. My view of the Capitol transforms into one of a looming farmhouse with a fresh green meadow. A family of horses bobs in front of me, whinnying and snorting. Unlike the coal black stallions who led our chariot, these animals have a much tamer look, their coats dappled with soft browns and whites and blues. They gaze peacefully at me with large, dark eyes, and when I reach my hand out to their muzzles, I can almost feel the hot breath blowing from their noses.

 **W** e are having breakfast for supper. "It'll be fun to change things up a bit, don't you think, dears?" Effie goes overboard with the ordering and soon the table is groaning under the weight of the dishes and platters. I survey the delicacies: smooth brown eggs, golden cakes as thin as paper, pan-grilled tomatoes. Haymitch dips sausages in his coffee, much to the other's disgust. He doesn't seem to care. "You should try these, Prim," Gale suggests. He gestures to his plate, which is full of yellow squares. "They call them waffles." I take one from the stack and carefully fill the wells with syrup, scooping strawberries on top as an afterthought. The first bite is glorious, crispy and melting. It may even beat the whipped cream. "Well, Cinna, you have certainly done the remarkable," Effie compliments. She is invested in spooning cream into her black drink. Cinna stirs the milky liquid in his cup several times. "Thank you, Effie. But a stylist is only as good as his models." He gives me a special smile and lifts his glass. "A toast to our outstanding Tributes, Prim and Gale. May the odds be ever in your favour!" He says this last bit with just a hint of sarcasm, which is almost imperceptible. The narrowing of his coffee colored eyes gives him away. "Here, here!" Everyone lifts their glasses, which are filled with something fizzy and orange. Well, everyone except Haymitch, who is nursing his drink and picking at a piece of toast. "As you two probably know, training starts tomorrow," Effie begins. She swirls her fork around her plate, drenching it in a strawberry-colored sauce. "All the Tributes will be there. You'll have three days to practice, and then the Gamemakers will assess you privately. Your mentor is supposed to be giving you some guidance as to what you should spend your time on." She shoots Haymitch a meaningful look, but his eyes are downcast. Gale shovels another waffle in, reaching out to flick my braid. "Catnip wears her hair like that a lot," he observes. "It looks good on you." I smile, but focus on buttering a blueberry scone rather than answer him. Sadness threatens to overtake me at the sound of her name. My throat feels like it has been lodged with a grapefruit.

Dessert is exciting. A cake that flares with firecrackers. The alcohol, Cinna assures me, has burned out by the time I taste it. It is sweet and light and filled with nuts. "So, Haymitch," Gale says. "What are our strategies when we train? Should we show off our skills? The sound of his deep voice seems to penetrate the haze Haymitch has been ensconced in since supper began, because he lifts his head and shakes back his mane, which is now a soft clean yellow. His fingers crimp the tablecloth as he looks up. "You should," he addresses Gale. "Think you've got a shot at being in the Career pack. Try to impress 'em." I know this will not be a problem for him. One flash of his deep brown eyes and the female sponsors will melt. He can lift two sacks of grain in the same hand. He can dive into pools and vanish into their depths for long minutes, his tan body gelled with blue water. He can kill and heal and be fed by the forest. He will not be alone in the arena. "Kid, you've got to downplay it," Haymitch says. His eyes, slightly glassy again, pass over my pale face. "Remember, you're the sweet little bunny who eats rainbows for breakfast. Don't pick up a knife. Learn something useful, like setting traps or starting a fire. Chances are, if you survive the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, you'll end up dying from natural causes. It'd be better if you knew how to find shelter or weave a net than if you learned to swing a mace you'll probably never end up getting your hands on." He finishes his speech and takes a bite of cake. Crumbs dust his chin. "For the training assessment, same deal. Gale, you give them everything you've got. Might pull a ten. Prim, the lower the score, the more people will underestimate you. Play that to your advantage. Who knows? You might even manage to live a few days before someone stabs you in the back." There are protests at this; Cinna frowns carefully at his coffee, and Effie looks angry. "Don't you go talking to her like that, Haymitch," she grinds out. "Primrose may be young, but that doesn't mean anything. She might even win. You never know what to expect. That's the whole fun of the Games!" I stare at my plate, which is blue and white and has flowers dripping down the sides in an ornate pattern. I can see my reflection in the cooled lake of syrup. Haymitch clears his throat and twists his napkin into shreds. "Just trying to not raise any unrealistic hopes here. It's the babies that always go first." He pushes back his chair, muttering something under his breath about needing a drink and a bed. A hush descends upon the room, the faces of the diners growing solemn and dim. After a pregnant pause, Effie seems to assume the role of hostess and straightens her back until it is a rigid as a skelton's, smoothing out her pale pink hair. "Who wants seconds?"

 **E** ffie wakes me up at seven, rapping sharply on the door. "Wake up, wake up! It's going to be another big, big,big, day!" When I roll over in the soft bed I see the farmhouse scene. Pale light filters from the virtual clouds and illuminates the ghostly forms of the horses, who are still fast asleep. I rise from my warm den of bedding and pad to the shower, shivering in the cold. Suds drip down my scalp as I hastily scrub away the fine film of grease that has coated my skin overnight. An electric current buzzes through my long hair, combing and drying it instantly. It flows in gentle waves, as soft as muslin. A light grey uniform has been left on my dresser. I dip my feet in the holes, zipping it to the throat. The number 12 is stitched in fine black thread, right beneath my collarbone. My stomach fills with a fleet of butterflies.

 **W** e eat a quick, cold breakfast. I sip icy milk and let Cinna smooth something cold onto my cheeks. "Foundation," he explains. He fills in my brows so they are dark and heavy. He draws on my eyelids with a blue pencil. Haymitch guzzles something deep and red from a short glass. His breath smells like smoke. Gale tears his sweetroll aggressively, kneading it between his fingers. It sags, defeated, on the table, its puffy shape now a memory.

 **T** he elevator is thrilling. It has glass walls and plummets down thirteen floors. The people on the ground look like little china dolls. I almost ask if we can ride it again, but something tells me that's a little too babyish for Effie's taste.

 **T** he Training Room is in the basement. It's colder down here, as if someone dimmed the lights on the sun. Gale stares straight ahead, his eyes smoldering, almost melting the metal elevator doors with his glare. They glide open with their habitual hiss, revealing the interior. My blue irises, paler in this dark light, widen to the size of teacups. My mother has a china tea set at home, cream colored and decorated with funny animals that have long trunks. Elephants, she'd told me. Their ears are floppy and they have impeccable wrinkled skin. They dance across the saucers and ancient, cracked cups. Gifting the drinker with a crooked smile. Spraying clear water into their gaping, rubbery mouths. Grey pictures.

 **A** vast gymnasium stretches before me, filled with every conceivable obstacle course and weapon. A line of swords is planted in rows to my left, like shimmering silver flowers. A yellow cargo net mazes the ceiling, threatening to flip at the slightest pressure. A sterile, white machine with silhouettes of insects and butterflies glows dully in the back of the room. The other Tributes have already arrived and their expressions are freezing and aloof. They circle a tall, athletic woman who introduces herself as Atala. Her skin is is smooth and brown, her voice as clean and crisp as the first bite of an apple. She informs us that we have three days to train. That we are not to engage in combat with the others until the Games commence. "Don't ignore the survival stations," she warns, her tone silky and sultry at the same time, like a honeyed stormcloud. "Everyone wants to grab a sword, but exposure can kill as easily as any knife."

 **G** ale is certainly eager to grab a sword. He slashes one through the air, slicing atoms into further nothingness. It winks in the light, the blade seeming to be burning with white fire. He halves a sandbag and mutilates a cloth dummy. An instructor comes up to challenge him, but is flat on his back in a minute, his own weapon dashed from his hand. Gale's expression is predatory and black. "Hey, big guy!" a blond boy calls. It is Cato from District 2. His lean torso, muscular shoulders and rich complexion hint at a lifetime of having enough to eat. His eyes, deep and welling up with venom, glitter dangerously as they scan my brother's bronzed, rigid form. "Hey Twelve, you wanna spar?" He raises a sword of his own, which is thin and tinted blue. He leaps onto the green mat Gale is poised on. Gale's normally warm skin looks pale and strange beneath the heavy fluorescent lights. Sweat glosses his forehead. His eyelids flutter closed for a moment, as if they are taking a breath. "Yeah, Two. I'll give something to cry about to your mother." Then they are battling, flitting as swiftly as hummingbirds, a blur of white and brown and gleaming metal. Cato's blade grazes his wrist and a thin red line appears, lazily dripping blood, but the blond's weapon is knocked to the ground as Gale measures out a hefty blow of his own. Cato struggles to his feet, his face beet red and lined with purple. "Again!" he demands, but as he lifts his sword, Gale's fist slams right into his jaw. He stumbles back, an almost bewildered look gracing his features, and slowly lifts a hand to cup his head. The skin is already beginning to darken with a bruise. Six Peacekeepers rush over to the scene, but Gale gives them an angelic smile and merely shrugs. "Sorry, I thought we were still sparring." They let him off the hook with a stern frown and several muttered warnings. I remember Gale's ability to weasel out of things: back in the Seam, he'd swipe a bite of someone's lunch in the cafeteria but give them a puppyish expression to compensate. Smoothing things over always seemed to be an easy task for him. Apparently, he hadn't lost the gift. My mother had once called him "silver-tongue," and every now and then we'd tease him with the nickname. Looking at Cato, you would think he was about to try and stab Gale in the heart or gut his stomach, letting the slimy entrails slide to the floor. His purple-rimmed jaw clenches and his glare is smoldering. But suddenly, the anger melts from his face, dissolving like salt in warm water. His eyes glisten with some new emotion, almost akin to… respect? He straightens his spine and claps Gale on the shoulder. "Nice going, man. Why don't you come throw some knives with the rest of us?" He gestures to the Career pack, who is watching the exchange with wary glances. Gale shrugs, but replaces his sword on the rack and follows Cato to the small group of Tributes. When they begin to hurl the knives at their targets, Gale hits his dead center.

 **I** am trying to make a fire. My hands are raw and cracked from rubbing the sticks vigorously together. So far, I have not ignited a single yellow spark. The instructor has wandered off, probably to find a Tribute worth their time, leaving me to sweat out my frustration in peace. I spent a few dreamy hours at the camouflage station, coating my arms in thick brown and grey paints. Eventually, I experiment with unlikely colors such as pale pink or turquoise. The colors are a luxury. Back home, life is grey and rotting. Sometimes, though, Katniss would take me with her to the town square and I'd drag her to the bakery. We'd press our noses against the glass display windows, frosting them with our hot breath, staring at the rows of elaborate cakes. Each was iced in spring colors, lavender and light green and sunshine yellow. Sugar flowers and pearls dotted the surfaces. Much too expensive to even dream of purchasing. They were something only a fairy could hope to eat.

I concentrate on the fire once more, struggling to form a blaze. After another ten minutes, I give up, resting on my heels and wiping my brow. My braid is sticky with perspiration and my neck feels hot. "It's easier if you hold your hands lower," a soft voice murmurs. I whip my head around and come face to face with a small girl who is about my size. Her skin is like brown satin and her hair is as black as ebony. Her eyes are as gentle and dark as the stallions that pulled our chariot last night. She leans forward slightly even as she stands, like a bird about to drag its wings through the sky in flight. I turn back to the sticks, sliding my hands to their bases. "Like this?" I ask, rubbing them together. She drifts over and sinks down next to me, thoughtfully inspecting my work. "I think you need to do it a little faster," she suggests. I quicken my pace, and within moments, a flame bursts into existence, hot and vivacious. Sweet smoke curls into the air. "Thanks for the tip," I say. "What District are you from?"

"Eleven. Agriculture." She smooths her hands over her crisp uniform. "Sometimes I have to make fires in the fields. You're from Twelve, right?" I nod, blowing on my cupped hands which are still wrapped around the warm sticks. "Yeah. Coal. You'd think I'd know something about fire…"

She smiles and it is soft and shy. "I can't believe that boy you came with beat Cato up," she remarks, her fingers twisting together. "I know. I thought he was going to knock Gale senseless or something. But apparently now they're best friends." I gaze at the pair. They are firing arrows at a cutout human, their brown and golden heads bobbing up and down. "Boys are weird." We giggle softly, but I sense her nervousness. Gale is just another big wolf added to the pack. Another mouth hungry for blood. I turn to face her as the fire simmers down to dusky coals. "I'm Prim," I tell her. "What's your name?" She plays with her mass of dark curls and gives me a half-smile. Then she holds out a delicate brown hand. "Rue."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: Playing Games

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters connected to the Hunger Games trilogy or films. All rights go to Suzanne Collins and the film producers.  
Thank you Nighttimephoenix for pointing out my error in the last chapter! :)  
Please review!

" **A** llies, huh?" Haymitch swirls his dark drink in his glass. He snuffs it, then downs the contents. His hair, limp and yellow, frames his hollow face. He lifts a cigarette from a pack, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. "Guess that makes sense." His fingers shake as he unearths a silver box and lights the paper tip on fire. He inhales, dragging smoke into his lungs. When he blows the smoke out, it curls lazily into the air, a blue shadow. "I got the message from the little girl's mentor this morning. Told him I'd ask you." His face contorts as he coughs out fumes. He lets his pale eyelids drift closed, like snow drifting onto the forest floor. "Tell him yes," I reply, rising from the chair. It is almost time for training. Gale waits quietly by the door, combing his fingers through his soft, clean mane. "I don't want to be alone in the arena." Haymitch gazes up into my face from his seat. His eyes look glazed over, lost in some dreary haze. "Oh, but you will be," he murmurs. He drops the cigarette to the floor and crushes it with his boot, grinding the ashes into the gold carpet. There is a black stain among the gold.

 **W** hen I arrive at the Training Center, Rue is already there. Her hair wreaths her head like a black halo, and her brown skin glows faintly in the fluorescent light. I have blisters on my palms from rubbing sticks together yesterday. They burn, a soft fire. I approach her slowly, suddenly feeling shy. I have no idea how to deal with a relationship like this. What do you say to the person who's covering your back in a prison full of killers? Rue, however, seems to know. She comes up to me and places a delicate hand on my shoulder, wrapping her fingers around it and squeezing. The lightest pressure. A butterfly landing on a leaf. "Okay?" she asks, her voice barely louder than a breath. Her eyes are calm and deep and she seems so certain about this, about all of this. It makes me feel braver. "Okay," I whisper back, feeling steady under her touch, her gaze. "Okay." Her smile is as bright as the sun.

 **W** e teach each other. I help her distinguish between honey bees and tracker jackers, between box elders and poison ivy. I tell her a story from when my father was alive. I was six, and he had taken me into the forest with Katniss. While they stalked deer and mended traps, I wandered off into a lush patch of leaves, getting lost in the grey frey. I'll never forget my mother's horrified face when I came home covered head to toe in a crimson rash. "Leaves of three, let them be," she'd murmured as she rubbed a cold lotion over the planes of my back. But I slept well that night, deliciously cool.

 **W** e're playing this computer game that asks us whether something is edible or toxic. We alternate turns, and so far I have a perfect score. "You're dead!" I announce as Rue deems a dark berry as 'safe.' "That's nightlock. You'd be dead in a minute." She shoots me a half-hearted glare. "What? I'm just trying to help." She shakes her head, curls bouncing. Dark ribbons. We play the game until she's gotten the knack of it, her black irises lit up by the blue screen. We move on, and I teach her what Katniss taught me. It's only been a few days since I saw my sister, but it feels like an eternity. Her existence feels like a mere dream. I miss watching her brush her long, brown hair, a wave of dark chocolate against her snowy skin. I miss the scent she carried in from the dusk when she returned from the forest. I miss her lullabies, the way her cold hands felt as they cupped my head.  
I guide Rue through the steps of weaving nets from vines, constructing fishing poles, setting basic traps. She teaches me things she learned in the fields of her district. How to climb, how to use a slingshot. "We used to kill snakes with them," she explains. I have a knack for hitting the target with the smooth grey stones, but I'm a bit clumsy. Rue flashes up the yellow cargo net as quickly as a fish weaving through a lake. She is able to balance on the nimblest branches of a fake tree. She moves swiftly, high to low, making me dizzy. When I try to copy her, I fall flat on my back.

" **S** o," Rue says, folding her legs together in a lotus pose. "We need a game plan." We are having our midway break, eating peaches and pears. Juice trickles down our fingers. Delicious bloodstains. We have curled up in the corner, huddled on wide, flat pillows that sink under our weight. The others leave us alone. "A game plan?" I ask, weaving my fingers together and taking another bite. The peaches are heavenly, and are even better when paired with cream. "Yes. We need to decide what to spend our time on here." Rue's face is cold and serious, even as she finishes her pear. "I mean, decide what's going to be the most productive. I think you'll be able to figure out what's edible in the arena, and I'll be able to climb. But what about shelter, or real weapons training?" We polish off the remainder of the fruit, then burrow down on our stomachs, like weary puppies. "We should ask about building shelters next. Maybe Gale can give us a sword lesson?" I suggest. My stomach tightens at the thought. I know Gale would never hurt me, would prefer to die than take a blade to my throat, but I'm still suspicious of the other Careers. He's been distant, petting my head before breakfast and giving me a sugary smile before bed, but nothing in between. Rue grazes her long fingers across her face, absently brushing a wisp of curl away. I tuck my long hair behind my ears, feeling the silkiness of it. It feels as smooth as an iced cake. "Listen, Prim. I know Gale's from your district, but I think we should steer clear of him. He's allies with those people. Even if he's your friend, we should keep our distance. You know, just in case." Her words sting, making my insides feel like they've been submerged in acid. I realize now that my desire for him to join me in the arena was nothing more than a fantasy. While I can't fault him for it, my heart swallows itself at the notion that I may never see Gale again once we step off those platforms. I'll never feel his arms around me, squeezing me with the strength of a black bear, or inhale his smoky scent. I'll never hear him sing under his breath after we enter the arena. Rue seems to understand, because she reaches out and grips my hand lightly in her own. "Listen. We'll stay away from Gale, but I think we can have a little fun with the other Careers." _Fun_? I wonder, my eyes narrowing in confusion. My mother says I have cornflower blue eyes, but my father said they were as light as the sky. Katniss just says they're pretty. I'm rambling, though. Rue's lashes flutter as she replies, "Yeah. Fun. I have a plan."

 **T** he plan, it turns out, is very nearly a suicide mission. Rue's strategy is to pit the other Tributes against each other. However, one wrong move and she'll be the first to be sliced in half once the countdown ends. Cato and the Tribute from District Six are sparring beneath the monkey bars, their knives glinting in the light. Silver and cold. Rue is mounted on the top of the bars, a sleek panther waiting to devour its prey below. She waits, gliding smoothly across the surface, until the boys break for a drink. Their necks are soaked with sweat, and the water they guzzle is icy and clear. Rue stealthily drops down from her perch, slowly inching over to the abandoned set of knives. Ever so carefully, she lifts Cato's short, thin blade and eases it into her pocket. Then she delicately swoops her lithe body up to her former position. A minute later, Cato screams in rage. His bellows rupture the still, calm air in the room, like an arrow piercing the night. A war cry. "Where's my knife?" He demands, shoving the boy from Six in the chest. His eyes are drops of fire melting into coals and his neck is slashed through with streaks of purple veins. The frightened Tribute holds his hands up, looking like the small grey bunny I cradled in the woods. He tucks his head between his broad shoulders, cowering under a black glare. His body a sigh. "I don't know! I didn't take it!" He stammers, trembling so hard it's a wonder he's even on his feet. Cato snarls and pushes him into a rack. "Yeah, yeah. I saw you take it! When we get into the arena, you're _dead_!"

 **I** t's my turn next. A few of the Careers have decided to display their strength by lifting weights. One strong boy, who is built like an ox, seems to be scrutinizing a lean, willowy boy, who is built like the stem of a flower. "Hey, you. Go lift that bag." He gestures to a sack and slaps the Tribute on the back. "Better show us you can pull your own weight." The smaller male's face becomes pale, his ruddy cheeks now snowy. Before he can pick it up, however, Cato calls them over. The two turn and trail after their leader like starving dogs begging for remains. I slip over, quiet as a mouse pup, and drag the bag from the table, finding it weighs about fifty pounds. I gesture for Rue to come over, and together we replace the sack with a much heavier one. We slink back into the shadows, our eyes misted over with darkness and hope. Cato seems to have released the boys, for they return, the larger one glaring dangerously at his companion. His face is twisted into a fearsome scowl. "Go on and lift it," he commands, pointing to the bag. The skinny boy swallows stoically and bends to raise the sack into the air. His complexion flushes and his flimsy muscles strain, flexing beneath his smooth skin, which is dusted with a galaxy of brown freckles. He manages to lift it an inch off the ground, then drops it with a grunt. His breath escapes him in soft, miserable pants. The other Tribute sneers in the boy's face. "That was only fifty pounds. You telling me you can't lift fifty pounds?" His own shoulders are as wide as mountains and his muscles bulge as he snatches the sack for himself and flings it over his head as if it weighs no more than a robin's feather. "Pathetic," he murmurs, stalking away. He heads towards Cato and whispers into his ear. The golden head bobs up and down, rising and falling like a tide. They both shoot a look towards the small teenager, who droops even more, a flower pelted in the rain.

 **R** ue and I spend the rest of the day constructing shelters out of supple wood and chalky bricks and thick logs. We sew long canopies of leaves and sit under the green roofs, our shoulders lightly touching. We share a smile and rest in the quiet, surveying the others as they dance through obstacles and stab dummies in the heart with narrow spears. The small boy has been rejected from the Careers, it seems, and he rests his head against a column, his eyes closed in exhaustion and maybe grief. I lean more heavily into Rue's side, watching as she patches a hole in one of our shelter's walls. I wonder how long we'll last.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six: Dove Girl and Mermaid Lady

 _Prim's POV:_

 **I** look like a bride. Cinna has transformed me into something ethereal, something that radiates light and is reminiscent of a pearl. He dusts marble colored powder over my cheeks and fills my hair with pale feathers. They flutter softly, sleepily alive. He sweeps my tresses into a high bun, letting a few golden tendrils fall gently over my eyes. The dress he slides over me is freezing and feels like a cloud. He snuffs the lights. It is only him and me in a black room. The ceiling is simply a sheet of glass, and the sky beats down on us. A starless night. He walks me to a mirror. In the fiery moonlight, I see a bird. She has satiny skin and delicate plumes. Frosty and white. Cinna whispers to turn. I spin slowly in the soft slippers and my wings emerge, arching high over my head. Ready for the sky.

 _Rue's POV:_

 **M** y stylists have turned me into something mythical. They have straightened my hair and it is sleek and damp. They spray saltwater over my face. It mists my skin, refreshing and cold. They paint glitter onto my cheekbones, colors like blue and violet and gold. My dress shimmers with sequins, and it trails behind me, a green blur. As they work, they tell me stories of mermaids, a Capitol fairytale. Emerald women with fishtails, cleaving through the water. Sleeping in purple nets. Granting wishes. I have become one of them now, with a tail as shimmery as sunlight hitting the waves. Ready for the sea.

" **W** elcome! Welcome, Welcome, Welcome!" The crowd screams, a delighted mass. "Welcome to the 74th annual HUNGER GAMES!" More deafening applause. The women wear roses in their hair. In the Capitol, they are worn to funerals. How lovely. Caesar Flickerman, the infamous talk show host, lowers his voice to a stage whisper. "Behind me, in the wings, are 24 breathtaking Tributes. Are you ready to meet them?" The cheers from the cloud cloak the hammering of my heart. I am next to Thresh, who is dark and strong and endlessly silent. He stares straight ahead, as motionless as a summer night when it's too hot to sleep. "Are you _excited?_ " Caesar bleats. "I'm _so_ excited! So let's not delay this any further. Marvel, come on up!"

It's Cato's turn. The blond walks nonchalantly onto the stage, his gait smooth and slow. He sits in the stuffed red chair across from his host, rubbing his thin nose as if in boredom. On the television screen, he reminds me of a lion: a thick golden mane, eyes like dark fire. "Cato. Cato, Cato, Cato. Such a confident look! Tell me, are you afraid of going into the Arena?" Cato's lips twitch into a smile, and he eases back in his seat. "No Caesar. I'm definitely not afraid."

" _Definitely_ not afraid? My, my, my, you certainly are sure of yourself. Tell me, what's your secret? I'd love to know: I get stagefright all the time!" A big laugh from the audience. They howl like jackals.

"You know, I'm vicious, I'm strong, I'm ready to go." He stands and nods to the crowd, before walking off without a word. Caesar's thick eyebrows shoot up comically, surprise glossing his features. "Well, _he_ was certainly in a hurry to get away!" The crowd cackles. "But I wouldn't underestimate that young man for a second. Such ambition! Such a fierce face! I'd hate to be in that Arena with him!"

 **T** he Tributes file onto the stage, take their places and are embraced hungrily by their fans. Some jest, others are serious, a few try to be charismatic. The red-haired girl from District 5 uses formal language and big words. Caesar seems to nudge her off the stage more quickly than the others. I don't blame him. The male and female from District 1 sit sleepily under the lights and let the crowd soak in their beauty. Their skin is snow, their arms are flower stems. Their hair, soft and fair, floats around them like a duck in water. Gently bobbing. The crowd breathes them in.

Thresh speaks with a quiet care, which contradicts his massive frame. He is built like an ox, but his shoulders slump as if he has been pulling a load for many years. He's respectful but distant, his eyes soothing black pools, his hands folded in his lap. His skin seems to have been soaked in a bath of dark light. So distantly beautiful. The odds are in his favor.

" **N** ext, Ladies and Gentleman, I'd love to introduce you to Rue!"

I glide onto the stage, oddly serene. I feel like a shadow slipping into the night. Barely there. The crowd sighs when I emerge, basking in the sight of my magnificent dress. The lights have dimmed and a gentle hum descends upon the people here. Caesar rises and kisses my hand, then suddenly twirls me around. I spin almost drunkenly, still lost in that haze of calm. "Why, look at you. You're a mermaid!" He traces a finger over the bright sequins, which cast green bars of light that spill over the floor. We sit and Caesar looks fondly at me, his eyes urging me to be calm. But I'm already calm, so his gaze sweeps over me and I feel nothing but a pleasant numbness. "So, Rue. You're one of our youngest competitors this year. How does that feel? Are you intimidated?" I keep my head down, my dress shimmering in my lap. "I think I'll be okay," I answer meekly, keeping my neck jammed down. My mentor stressed the importance of looking like a frail child shaking in her skin. "I know you got a four for your training score. Are you trying to conceal your skills? Maybe surprise us?" I shrug slowly, gently running my fingers over the rough red material of the chair's fabric. My eyelashes drift closed for a moment, resting. "I hope so. I may have had a bad day in front of the Gamemakers, but I have a few skills to show off. I'm pretty good with a slingshot and I'm a fast runner and climber. If they can't catch me, they can't kill me." I giggle and wave to the audience. They whisper a collective " _Awww."_ Caesar smiles and takes my hand in his, gently enclosing my wrist. "Now, tell me, Rue. Do you have any brothers or sisters?" I nod my head slowly, suddenly feeling sadness well up in my chest like rain in a dam. It's much easier to store my memories of them in a secret closet of my mind. To lock away the images of my sisters. Running through the grass with bare feet. Cooling off in the shallow ponds and icy brooks in the western fields. Eating cold biscuits for breakfast. Lying on the ground and watching the dawn kiss the land, the sun like a drop of honey at first then growing into a red flower that scorches the trees. "I do have siblings," I reply. "Five of them."

"Five of them." Caesar nods to himself. "Five little siblings. Tell me, Rue, do you miss them?"

"Yes," I breathe back, instantly, suddenly lightheaded. My throat is clogged, swollen with salt…

"Yes, I miss them very much." The audience sighs, holding their hands over their hearts. "Is there anything you'd like to tell them? You know they're watching you right now. I'm sure they're very proud of their green Mermaid Lady." His face is warm and feels safe, though I sense the tiger underneath. However, I turn to the cameras and summon up something to say, something that will live with them for the rest of their lives. There are so many things I want to say. " _Mama, I miss sitting in your lap after working in the fields. Daddy, I wish you would tell me one last joke. Sisters, I wish we could have one last swim in the moonlight. Dog, I wish you could lick my face just one more time."_ My tears are hot and fierce and real. They cascade down my face like salty raindrops. In the end, however, I wave to the cameras and look deeply into their endless lenses. "Goodbye," I say to them. "Just goodbye."

 _Prim's POV:_

 **G** ale is strong and stormy on the stage. He answers Caesar's questions with finality. The crowd sees a hungry wolf. A dark soul. A rugged hunter. And yet, he is still my Gale. The Gale who bandaged my knees when I fell and scraped them. The Gale who let me sleep on his chest every night after my father died, whispering soft things into my ears. The Gale who would buy me an orange every birthday, sneaking it to me after school. Letting me devour its sweet insides. I've missed the boy who has been with me all along. "Gale, let me ask you something. Are you determined to go home to your family?" Gale's irises darken and his brows crease. A deadly frown. "Yes. Whatever it takes."

"Whatever it takes?"

"That's what I said."

Caesar leans back in his chair and inspects Gale, his strong jaw and his smoldering features. He lifts a foot and shakes it, easing the stiffness out. "You'd do anything, hmm? I know you're close to your co-Tribute. Prim." Gale's face goes still, his cheeks coloring his nails sear his skin. "Yes," he replies, his voice deep and menacing. Caesar grins innocently and drags a heavy hand through his midnight blue mane. Powdery and aged. "Tell me this then, my boy. If it came down to it, would you take her out? Claim the crown for yourself?" Gale grinds his teeth and digs his fingers into the arms of the scarlet chair. His eyes are filthy stars. "I would." The audience murmurs softly. Birds twittering in the trees. "And so you would." Caesar nods his head approvingly. "Sacrifices have to be made," Gale insists, hissing the words. Caesar holds his hands up, his smile blinding and white."They absolutely do. You certainly have embraced the spirit of the Games. Good luck, Gale." The audience stares reverently at the impressive man my ex-brother has become. He stalks off the stage. When he comes into the wings, he doesn't meet my devastated gaze. I feel a hand brush my shoulder in the lightest of touches. A comforting caress. I look into Rue's face and my eyes mist with tears. She leans in and whispers something to me. It touches me. Caesar calls my name.

 **B** irds are delicate and gentle. They swim through the air, their wings tinged with the pink glow of the sunset. They fish in deep lakes and build warm nests covered with fluff. They feed their young and scout for prey. Free. They are also fierce protectors: they claw their enemies to death, swoop down the from the grey skies to break the necks of mice. They seldom rest, and are always seeking. Today I am a dove. A symbol of peace. Though in reality, they are some of the most aggressive birds, ripping throats out of their neighbors. Others know to stay out of their way. As I sway across the stage and spin for Caesar, my wings fly open and the crowd oozes with admiration. "Prim, you're a vision!" the host exclaims, helping me into my seat. "A true dove. You are the most beautiful bird I've ever seen. Do you agree, folks?" Thunderous applause. Loud like hail on your roof. I whisper sweet answers to the questions Caesar poses: explaining my training score of four, my talents and my beautiful golden hair. Like with Rue, Caesar leans forward and grasps my hands in his dry and cracked ones. "Your mother and sister. Did they come to see you, before you left?" His voice is hushed and almost smoky. "Yes. Yes, they did." He leans closer and gives my hand a tender squeeze. "And what did you tell them, when they came?" The audience tilts in to hear, a human wave. A rainbow of colors tonight. "I told them that I'd come home," I reply, my heart throbbing slightly. I wish I had asked them instead for one last pet. One last kiss. _Mother, I wish you could comb my hair one last time. Run another warm bath for me. Soothe my coughs with syrup. Katniss, I wish you would return to your old self. Rub my hands when it's cold. Feed me from the forest. Let me walk with you through the green, deep woods. Lady, I wish I could taste your sweet milk one last time. Let the taste linger on my lips._

Caesar clears his throat. "Now Prim, one last question. When Gale said he'd kill you for the crown, how did you feel?" My cheeks flame and my eyes turn into cold stones. I turn to the crowd and stare into their vacant eyes, their filthy souls. "I understand his decision. But I feel it's only fair to warn him too: I'm not going down without a fight. So watch your back."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven: Deep Sleeps

 _Prim's POV:_

 **I** t's the night before I go into the Arena. The plans are set: after the countdown, Rue and I will head in the same direction, going uphill. Search for water. The Cornucopia, with its festive feast of weapons and provisions, will not be touched by our hands. We will run for ages, then collapse. It reminds of this rhyme my sister told me when I was very young. _Go dogs, go! See how they run! Into the forest, up on the hill. Go dogs go! Into the sun! Oh dear, they took a spill!_

I am not thinking of tomorrow. I am thinking of the grey Seam, which is coated with ash. I close my eyes and I'm there. I am with Lady, who is smearing my palm with her soft white nose. I am in the forest, and deep purples are falling onto the trees. I am staring at the fairy cakes in the baker's window with Katniss, wishing I could lick off the thick buttercream frosting. I am sitting in a chair while my mother rubs cold lotion onto my shoulders after a dry summer day. I am cleaning my father's shaving mirror, scrubbing away the coal to reveal my young face. What are these memories? At times they soothe, but now they sadden me. A secret world I reveled in, a few moments nicked from time. Though it's packed with edible delights, the Capitol has left me hungry. I will die hungry in a matter of days. Maybe tomorrow. I hope that death will feed me.

 _Rue's POV:_

 **I** am not thinking of tomorrow. I am thinking of the hot fields of my district. I close my eyes, and I'm there. I am bathing my feet in a blue stream. I am stroking the mule's ears. I am drinking cold milk and letting it drip it down to my chin. I am being carried home by my father, drifting off on his shoulder beneath the moon. I am lying on a cot with my sisters, our bare feet touching. It is dark in this room. Too dark to breathe. I picture my siblings in their cotton dresses, dozing off beside me. I sleep.

 _Gale's POV:_

 **I** am not thinking of tomorrow. I am thinking of Katniss. Of my betrayal. I am in the woods, and she is guiding me somewhere I don't know. Her deep hair absorbs the light, which shatters into crystals on her face. I am eating a stale breakfast next to her, tossing sweet berries into her open mouth. I am setting traps while she hunts, and I see her take down a stag across the lake, watch it heave as it slowly dies. I see her drive a knife through his heart, ending its suffering. I am fifteen and I am kissing her. Am I doing the right thing? Is killing Prim the right thing? My family… my grey mouse family is starving, scrubbing clothing for a living, burning whatever they can for heat. Isn't it better to save four lives and sacrifice one, than the other way around? I heard someone mention God the other day. Nobody believes in Him anymore, not in the Seam. I whisper His name and ask him to help me decide. But no, I am too tired. My eyes close, and I leave the world for a minute.

 _Haymitch's POV:_

 **I** am not thinking of tomorrow. I am thinking of the past. My past. These stupid kids don't know the game. How it's rigged so living is worse than dying. I swirl the bottle in my hand and down a third. Sleep.

 _Effie's POV:_

 **I** t's another big, big, big day!

 _Prim, Gale and Rue's POV:_

 **W** ake up, cold, shower, wet, dry, last time I'll be clean, hurry with the soap, jump into a thin black uniform, breakfast, tired, so tired, deep sleep, no sleep, awake, blood pumping, mentor cups my cheek, says goodbye, goodbye, board hovercraft, sharp needle in arm,land, dragged down to freezing basement, lambs to the slaughter, just lambs not pigs, open door, locked door, stylist scrubs me, places hand on my cheek, as if checking for fever, fever? No fever, cold, sleep for a second, tube comes down, 30 seconds, breathe, 20 seconds, breathe, 10 seconds breathe, in tube zero seconds, up I go _whoosh._

 **C** ountdown. 60,59,58,57,56,55,54,53,52,51,50,49,48,47,46,45,44,43,42,41,40,39,38,37,36,35,34,33,32,31,30,29,28,27,26,25,24,23,22,21,20,19,18,17,16,15,14,13,12,11,10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1,0.

"Let the Hunger Games begin!"


End file.
